


'you've done a good job here Fordy'

by nymeriahale



Series: prompt fills [32]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: written for the prompt 'blood'~“What have you done, Georgie?” Owen asks, warm with amusement.“Lost a match,” George blinks up at Owen.“Poor baby,” Owen leans down to drop a kiss on George’s forehead. “And what about this?” he skims a thumb along George’s temple by the cut.“He and O’Connor decided to try to concuss each other."
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Series: prompt fills [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/396019
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	'you've done a good job here Fordy'

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'blood' for les13fernwehfire over on tumblr. Inspired by (warning for **gore/blood** ) [this injury of George’s](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DxSYrT-W0AAK4gV?format=jpg&name=4096x4096), a large bloody cut through his eyebrow.
> 
> Content warning for **injury** and a fairly detailed discussion of its **treatment/stitches** , including **local anaesthetic/needles** within the fic. Thanks must go to my medical mother for the information on that!
> 
> This is a work of fiction and as such nothing is to be considered implied or insinuated about real life rugby players.

George lets out a heavy sigh, sinking onto the bed in the medical room.

“You’ve done a good job here Fordy,” Gwen, the medic, tuts as she assesses his eyebrow.

“Glad you think so,” George musters up a smile. “You should really thank Brendan, I got it off him.”

Gwen hums, unimpressed. “Yes, and I’ll have words with him about wasting our medical supplies by injuring his teammates, don’t think I won’t.”

George laughs as Gwen turns her back, rustling in a drawer. “Should make him pay for it.”

“If he makes a habit out of it I will,” Gwen replies, absent minded. “Now,” she holds up a soaked cotton pad. “Just water first, then the good stuff. Then stitches.”

George snorts, closing his eyes as Gwen goes in to clear out the wound. “You make it sound like you’re chucking vodka on there or something.”

“I might be if Brendan actually was paying for it,” Gwen says, moving away.

George winces preemptively as Gwen’s fingers return to his face, sucking in a sharp breath as Gwen passes over the cut swiftly but thoroughly. He’s unable to stop himself leaning away, and equally unable to escape her deceptively gentle grip.

Owen’s voice comes from the doorway. “You know, I heard disinfectant doesn’t actually reduce the rates of infection.” 

“I always knew she was a sadist,” George grins, opening his eyes as Gwen moves away. 

“What have you done, Georgie?” Owen asks, warm with amusement, on his way to George. 

“Lost a match,” George blinks up at Owen.

“Poor baby,” Owen leans down to drop a kiss on George’s forehead. “And what about this?” he skims a thumb along George’s temple by the cut.

“He and O’Connor decided to try to concuss each other,” Gwen tells him. “Hello, by the way, Owen.”

“Hi Gwen,” Owen says sheepishly, sitting at George’s uninjured side. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“It wasn’t,” she agrees, then leans in to peer at the wound again. “I think it’ll take five stitches,” she declares. “Anaesthetic?”

George pulls a face - and his wound in the process.

“Yes,” Owen answers for him. “Give us a few more minutes in here,” he leans into George’s side, warm, before George can decide if he wants to protest.

“With Gwen?” George raises his uninjured eyebrow as the medic in question prepares a syringe. “I didn’t know you liked her so much.”

“I don’t like him that much,” Gwen says, effect ruined by the smile she can’t hide at Owen’s pout. “Injection time,” she warns.

Owen takes George’s hand as Gwen grips his chin.

George closes his eyes, does his best to hold still as the needle goes in once, then twice - he flinches away. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s okay, I got it in,” Gwen assures him. “It’ll be a problem if you can’t stay still for the stitches though, I won’t have the hands to hold you,” she frowns.

“It’s too close to my eye,” George explains apologetically. Even with them closed the defence reflex is just that - a reflex.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Owen says brightly, releasing George’s hand to rub his thigh.

“I thought you were here to annoy me,” Gwen says lightly.

“I thought you were here to comfort me,” George widens his eyes.

“I’m here to support you,” Owen clarifies. “Both of you,” he smiles at Gwen.

Gwen flaps a hand at him, heading to the door. “You can try,” she tells him, sceptical. “I’m going to do a round in the changing room, give the local time to take effect - don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” she levels the two of them with a serious look.

“Us?” George affects innocence.

Gwen scoffs, leaving them to it.

George drops his head to Owen’s shoulder.

Owen wraps an arm around him. “Okay?” he asks.

“Hurts,” George admits. It has since it happened, a steady throb distracting him all match. He wishes that were enough to excuse how they’d lost.

“The match or the cut?” Owen asks knowingly.

George sighs. “Both.”

Owen hums acknowledgement. “You’re getting there,” he offers.

George grunts.

Owen leans his head on George’s, squeezing him close.

George exhales, long and deep, and that’s where they stay until Gwen returns.

They straighten up as the door opens, Gwen pausing in the threshold for just a moment. “How’s that head feeling?” she asks George, walking past them to pull open a drawer helpfully labelled ‘stitches’.

“Better, actually,” George tells her, surprised to realise it.

“Poke him for me would you, Owen?” Gwen asks, laying out her supplies.

“With pleasure,” Owen grins, only to press the most gentle of touches above George’s cut.

“Yeah, numb,” George confirms.

“Good,” Gwen brings her supplies over. “Owen, if you could -”

Owen places a hand on each side of George’s head, takes a steady hold. 

George works his jaw - it’s not even going to hurt, he’s had anaesthetic. There’s no reason for his body to want to flee, he tells it sternly.

Gwen frowns, getting in close. “That’s not great access,” she mutters. “Maybe - if you could hold him against your chest?”

“If you wanted a show you only had to ask,” George tells her. “You know Owen would give you anything you wanted,” he continues, shifting down to lean his head on Owen’s chest, Owen readily wrapping an arm around him again.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gwen laughs. “If you could tilt a bit to the light?”

Owen turns, George moving with him.

“Perfect, hold him there,” Gwen directs.

Owen’s hand comes to George’s head again, wide grip holding him tight, just like last time. This time, the warmth and solidity of Owen’s chest beneath his cheek, the fingers of Owen’s other hand intertwining with George’s in his lap, the urge to flee lies dormant.

George lets his eyes fall shut.

“Good,” Gwen praises.

Owen’s hold goes lax, he runs a thumb through George’s hair. Then it tightens again, as much a warning as Gwen’s words.

“Forceps,” she says.

A pinch.

“Needle.”

There’s an odd push and a pull, all George can feel through the local anaesthetic. He manages to hold still through the first stitch, but at the second, lower down, he can’t help but pull away. There’s nowhere to go but Owen, and from the speed at which Gwen moves on to the other side of the wound he’s not even sure she’d noticed.

Owen has though, must have done. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good, George, you’re getting through,” he keeps up a stream of words as Gwen continues her work. “Only a few minutes more and we can go home, they can’t chuck you to the media when you’ve bled for them.”

George snorts, and Gwen pauses between stitches.

“Don’t make him laugh, Owen,” she scolds, before snipping off a thread.

George is growing to hate that sound, the swish of blades so close to his face.

“That’s three,” Owen tells him. “Over half way.”

George grunts out acknowledgement.

“You’re doing great - isn’t he doing great?”

“He is,” Gwen agrees. “Perfect patient, I do appreciate it when rugby players aren’t too proud to accept support. This would be a lot harder if he had pretended he could stop himself flinching away.”

“And I’m being good support?”

A pinch and a push, at the lowest end of the cut, closest to his eye. It feels wrong, George’s squeeze of Owen’s hand compulsive.

“Very good support,” Gwen accepts.

Owen squeezes back, rubbing a thumb on the back of George’s hand. “I’m good support, Georgie,” he stage-whispers.

“Knew that,” George gets out as Gwen ties off the stitch.

There’s silence, then Owen squeezes his hand again. “Sweet talker,” he murmurs.

“Last one,” Gwen tells them.

She’s as efficient on that stitch as all the others, George blinking his eyes back open in no time. “Thanks, Gwen,” he tells her, pulling away from Owen to sit up.

Owen lets him go but keeps a hand on his head, turns George to face him. 

Gwen waves a dismissive hand as Owen assesses the damage. “It’s my job,” she says with a smile.

“Still,” George insists, tugging out of Owen’s hold to address Gwen properly. “Thank you for doing it so well, and so quickly. And for tolerating this one,” he jerks his head at an offended Owen.

“Anything for my patients,” Gwen shakes her head, but her smile has grown. “And he was well behaved for once.”

“Hey!” Owen objects, but Gwen ignores him.

“You know the drill with stitch care?”

“Keep it clean and dry,” George nods. “Out in a week?”

“Should be,” Gwen agrees.

George gives Gwen a final smile before turning to Owen. “What’s the verdict, then?”

Owen takes George’s chin in his hand, turning his face to the light. “Not too bad,” he declares. “You’re lucky it’s hidden in your eyebrow.”

“Yeah? You gonna leave me over facial scarring otherwise?”

Owen smiles, shaking his head. “Never,” he admits, leaning in to -

“Do _not_ kiss the wound,” Gwen warns.

Owen pauses, adjusts course to George’s forehead.

“Goodness only knows where your mouth has been,” Gwen goes on.

Owen pulls back, grinning wickedly. “George knows.”

Gwen snorts before she can stop herself. “Get out of my medical room!”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this Bank Holiday Friday bonus fic! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments.
> 
> I hope you and yours are safe and well, and that those of you celebrating Christmas have a very merry one, regardless of circumstance <3 
> 
> (PS: I have two Christmas [prompt](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/638419249815240704/i-know-ive-already-sent-a-few-in-but-ive-found-a) [fills](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/638239115233624064/baby-its-cold-outside-for-a-christmas-themed) up on tumblr for those interested!)


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